Florence Foster Jenkins Review

7 out of 10

Cast:

Meryl Streep as Florence Foster Jenkins

Hugh Grant as St Clair Bayfield

Simon Helberg as Cosme McMoon

Rebecca Ferguson as Kathleen

Nina Arianda as Agnes Stark

Stanley Townsend as Phineas Stark

Allan Corduner as John Totten

Christian McKay as Earl Wilson

David Haig as Carlo Edwards

John Sessions as Dr. Hermann

Brid Brennan as Kitty

John Kavanagh as Arturo Toscanini

Directed by Stephen Frears

Florence Foster Jenkins Review:

The classic rebuttal to the act of criticism is that it misses the point of art, which is to move or inspire in some way. In that view whether a work is good or bad is immaterial because ‘good’ is only an estimation of how much it was able to move the viewer. That a skilled craftsman using all of his experience can create something quantitatively good, but also dry and dull and incapable of instilling passion. If a work doesn’t instill passion, what is the point of it and if it does what else matters?

This is the essential question in understanding the strange fascination with Florence Foster Jenkins (Streep), the would-be singer who subsumed the New York art scene with her fortune and asked only for an audience to listen her attempts at contributing to the world she loved.

As with any real person, that is only half the story. She was also an insightful and kind person who wanted nothing but to bring joy to people despite her lack of talent. This despite a life which had continued to try and rob her of her ability to appreciate joy, from the cruelty of her father to an unfaithful husband who left her battling syphilis her entire adult life.

If her joy of performing came through her inconsistent warbling, and if listening to it made people happy, who can call that bad? It’s the question director Stephen Frears (Philomena) spends all of Florence Foster Jenkins delicately, delicately, delicately probing. Probing with no hint of answer, but that’s to be expected. Creation is by its very nature an evocative act, impossible to pin down, which makes trying to explain what is good or even bad about it a suckers game.

The real focus, if good and bad are arbitrary abstracts, is enthusiasm – the extent the piece moves you is the acid test for artistic gold. To that extent, then, Frears answer is his film itself which never attempts to lecture, only to entertain.

Primarily through the able performances of his three stars and it’s difficult to tell who has the toughest job. Streep must be unhinged but restrained, hinting but never quite admitting how much Florence understands of how the world sees her. Grant, who remains underestimated for the sheer level of onscreen charisma he produces, has the opposite job through the stiff upper lipness of Florence’s loyal husband Bayfield, who truly cares for her while also using her money to keep himself happy (including feisty girlfriend).

It’s a difficult juggling act but each manages admirably while also being singularly upstaged by Helberg, who speaks volumes despite only speaking in looks and muttered whispers.

Helberg is Frears’ secret weapon, in many ways the point of view for the audience to deal with Florence’s world as the young piano player who gets drafted into accompanying her return to performing life. But in his use he is also a descriptor for how Frears sees his place in the film.

Seemingly afraid of getting in his own way and interrupting the flow of light entertainment he sits on the sidelines muttering under his breath but never interrupting. It’s as if any attempt at creating a reason for the film beyond just fun is doomed to ruin it without adding anything. But this is a straw man argument: that approaching something critically is to do so without enthusiasm and vice versa – in reality one thought compliments the other.

It’s entirely possible that’s because there’s nothing more to gather from Florence’s life. She was a sweet lady who had the wherewithal to make herself happy and in the process made others happy. Which is in reality an incredibly difficult feat and shouldn’t be underestimated.

But just accepting that at face value, feeling it for a moment and then forgetting it because its appeal was only in how it worked in that moment is a loss. As Florence and Bayfield’s enduring relationship despite its complications show, (never mind her own performances) whatever the messy details it’s what we leave behind that matters.

Giving into the impulse for momentary pleasure at the cost of the long-term isn’t sustainable, and neither is subsuming the critical impulse in the name of raw entertainment. It’s when we understand why something moves us that we’ve got art on our hands.